Newspaper Page Text
2
“ No. you needn't trouble yourself, brother, I
shall not send William to school to him any
longer. *v
44 Why. Anna, you surely are not going to take
your child from school without hearing from Mr.
Markham the particulars of this matter I"
I don't want any particulars, more than my
own eyes have seen. Suppose the child actually
did tell a lie, (which nolnxly who knows him
will believe) it would'nt justify Markham in beat
ing him to death."
“ Beating him to death! He's certainly a very
natural looking corpse! And when you tato
him from school, what are you going to do with
him ?” .
“ I'd rather send him to Mr. Toper than have
him'cut and slashed to pieces by Markham.
“ Toper! what, that drunken liooby who hardly
knows B from bull’s foot."
“Good morning, ladies!” said Mrs. Glib—
“ Good morning, Captain Thompson !’’
“ Why, brother! How could you talk so of
Mr. Toper? Don't you know that Mrs. Glib
sends her children to him ? She'll go right oil'
and tell him what you said.”
“No, I don't know, nor don't care where she
sends them. All I know about them is, that
Toper is a drunken fool, and tliat her children
arc perfect nuisances to the town, and that if
you mean to send your child to the devil, Toper
is the very man to carry him for you. Mrs. Glib
may tell him all tins too. if she chooses; and
then if he opens his mouth to me about the mat
ter, I’ll kick him out of the town, as a public
charity.”
“ I only said I had rather send my child to Mr.
Toper than have him lieaten so. I think I shall
employ a private tutor."
44 And pay ten times as much as is needful for
your child’s instruction; and then have him not
half as well taught, as he will be, by Markham 1
Anna, I beseech you, I implore you for your
child’s sake, don’t act at all in this matter under
your present feelings. Let the matter rest until
I can see Markham and learn the whole history
of it. I know more of boys than you do. They
do many things at school that they never do at
home, for the plain reason that they arc under
many temptations at school which they are not
under at home. You are probably now at the
turning point of your child’s destiny, and a false
step here may ruin him forever.”
Strange to tell, William listened to his uncle
with a kind of approving amazement, and as soon
as he had concluded, said:
“ Ma. I’m willing to go back to Mr. Markham
now; I a’nt afraid of him; I don’t think he’ll
ever whip me again.”
“ That’s a brave l>oy,” said the Captain.
“ Every word in the sentence is worth a guinea.
No good boy fears Mr. Markham."
“Ah, poor child!" said Mrs. Mitten—“he
knows little of the world’s duplicity. He little
dreams of the undercurrent that is at work
against him.”
“What undercurrent? Is it possible, Anna,
that after nine years acquaintance with Mark
liam. you can suspect him of duplicity and secret
hostility to such a child as that— your child— my
nephew' !”■
* “ Mr. Markham's not perfection , If what I’ve
heard of him is true,” said Miss Jane.
“ No,” said Miss Ann, “ and if I was ma, I’d
dio before I’d send brother William back to him
to be beaten like a dog.’!
“ And if I was ma, I’d learn you to hold your
tongues till your counsel was asked for."
“ Oh, do, brother, let the girls express their
opinions. I should suppose that one might have
an opinion, of even Mr. Markham, without hav
ing their head’s snapt oft'.”
Well, Anna, I see your mind is made up to
take William from Mr. Markham’s school."
“ Yes, I’m resolved upon it.”
“ And w ithout one word of explanation from
Mr. Markham !"
“ Yes; I want none of his explanations.”
" Ma," said William, " let me go back to the
end of the quarter.”
“ Bravo, Bill! Go back, my son—be a good
l>oy, and learn your book, and you’ll be a noble
fellow by and by.”
“ Brother David, do you think it’s right to en
courage a poor little ignorant child to run counter
to his mother’s wishes ?”
“ No, Anna; but I supposed that the wishes
of the child in whom you are so much wrapt up.
might save you from rash resolutions concerning
him."
44 Well, it is not necessary to debate the mat
ter further. I vow he never shall go back to
Mr. Markham's school, and that is the long and
short of it.”
Captain Thompson wheeled off and left the
house as if to get something of importance that
he had left in a dangerous place. In about a
half hour he returned:
“ Well,” said he, “ I have seen Markham, and
heard the whole matter explained"—and he
gave it from first to last, just as it occurred.
Still Mrs. Mitten adhered to her resolution. He
argued, he entreated, he implored, he forewarned,
he remonstrated, he used every means that he
could think of to change her mind, but to no pur
pose. The truth is, Mrs. Mitten would not place
her son where he was liable to bo wliipt. Her
brother left in a storm. I have been thus par
ticular in giving this part of William's history,
because it proved in the end, as the sequel will
show, to be remarkably unlucky, and fruitful of
wonderful consequences.
[to be continued.]
ET We commence in our first number the
publication of " Jack Hopeton and his friends; or
the Autobiography of a Georgian," by Mr. Wil
liam W. Turner. This story of the South, by
Southerner—of planter's life by a planter—
will be found graphic, true to life, and interest
ing. Turner will be a frequent visitor, and
he will welcome to our columns.
[W'ritten for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
JACK HOPETON AND HIS FRIENDS;
08.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GEORGIAN.
BY WM. wTTrRNEK.
CHARTER I.
Charley Hampton—although 1 designate him
thus familiarly—was about as old as my father,
but still a bachelor. I give the name by which
he was known throughout fashionable and sport
ing circles. I always called him Uncle Charley,
although there was no relationship existing be
tween us, except the strong tie of friendship
which bound him and 14 Hal,” as he called my
parent.
In matters of dress, equipage, furniture, Ac.,
his taste was exquisite. No one was a better
judge of horse, dog and gun. To the world he
seemed the mere man of pleasure and fashion—
the butterfly of society—handsome, accomplish
ed, highly gifted, but without solid or sterling
qualities. He seemed, to most people, perfectly
heartless, and indifferent to all the deeper and
finer feelings of our nature.
My father, however, had seen through the
» ‘* . SSL
Tmm vx mm xm yxusxds.
mask which Mr. Hampton chose to wear. He
had explored the inmost recesses of Uncle Char
ley's heart, and found there a mine of good qual
ities of which the world did not dream. Never
would lie have chosen Charley Hampton for a
friend, or recommended me to his friendship and
tutilage, had he not known that beneath the gay,
careless, and apparently selfish exterior of the
man of the world, there beat as true and warm a
heart as ever throbbed in human breast
Somotimes Uncle Charley was at our house,
when other guests were present, and at such
times he always wore his society face. Again
he would visit us when no one was at Hopeton
besides my parents and myself. Then he was
entirely different. A perfect abandon, in which
he seemed actually to revel, characterized all his
actions.
He was a great favorite with such of our ne- |
groes as were anything like characters, and many
were the jests which they had with each other, j
Uncle Charley was paying us a long visit in
the spring. j
‘•Charley,” said my father to him one day,'
“ fine gentleman as yon are, I know you have
an eye for good crops. Suppose I order our I
horses and we take a ride through my fields ? I
think I can show you something that will please
you.”
44 I’m agreeable,” was the reply.
“As you always are, my dear friend,” ans
we red my father.
“Jack,” he continued, turning to me, “have
the horses brought out —one for yourself, if you ■
wish—and let’s ride.”
The horses were quickly saddled, and we
mounted. We passed to the rear of the house,
through the negro quarter, and then through a
gate, opened by an obsequious little darkey.
44 Howdy, marss Charley!” called out the ebo,
grinning and scraping his foot on the ground.
“Why, Cumbo,” said Uncle Charley, “you
little serpent, how are you ?”
“ Toluble well, I thank you; how you do your
self?”
“Oh! my health is very good. Well, Cumbo,
you grow uglier—l must buy and carry you
around for a show.”
44 Marss won't sell me,” answered Cumbo, still
grinning, imagining that a great compliment had
been paid liim. 44 Marss can't do widout me,”
ho added.
“ Ah! Why, what use has he for you ?”
44 1 opens de gate fur him to go frough.”
44 Well, couldn’t Dick, or Tom, or any of this
crowd of little blackies do that?”
44 Dey aint krite so swift es I is."
44 Well, perhaps not—here is a dime for you
any way.”
Wo were presently riding through an immense
gently undulating field. On both sides of the
well-beaten road along which we proceeded,
stretched the long, straight rows of young cot
ton, away almost as far as the eye could reach.
In one part of the field was a squad of (doughs,
drawn by strong, well fed mules, and held by
stout, sleek looking negroes. The ploughs were
light sweeps, which stirred the rich soil and
shaved the grass close to the cotton. On came
the hands with a rush and a shout, close to
where we were riding, and a universal touching
of hats and grins of recognition greeted “ marss
Charley.”
Passing on, we came in sight of the hoe hands.
They were following the ploughs at a rapid pace,
clipping, with easy strokes, the few weeds and
sprigs of grass which were left by the ploughs.
Foremost in this squad was a negro who, in ap
pearance, was a jierfect curiosity. He was of
gigantic size, with immense and well formed
arms and shoulders, but with knock-kneed, awk
wardly shaped legs. It was easy to see, from
the way in which he wielded his hoc. that he
was possessed of great strength. His huge,
ugly face wore an expression of the most su
preme self-satisfaction which amounted to dis
dain, as he occasionally looked back and ad
dressed some, hand lagging behind. A slight
sprinkling of grey was perceptible in the thick
hair which protruded from under the slouched
wool-hat.
“ Harry,” said Uncle Charley, as we approach
ed the hoe hands, 44 1 must taik a little with my
old friend Juba.”
44 Very well,” answered my father, “ you shall
be gratified.”
“Sarvent, marss Charley," said Juba, doffing
his hat and making a low bow ns he passed us.
The salutation over, he again struck out with
his hoc.
“Hold on, Juba,” said his master, 4 • Marss
Charley wishes very much to have a conversa
tion with you.”
An expression of deep respect and good hu
mor had taken the place of Juba’s supercilious
look, as soon as we had appeared in sight. With
all liis arrogance toward “lazy, no-count nig
gers,” as he termed them, to his master, his mas
ter’s family and friends, he was loyal and true
as steel.
44 I’m mighty glad to see you, marss Charley,”
he said, taking oft' his hat and making another
profound bow. “You look mighty well, now
is your health, any how ?’’
“Excellent! old infidel! excellent! I have a
clear conscience, take plenty of exercise, and live
temperately; so you sec there is nothing to make
me sick. But how is your own health?”
44 I’m jest as well as a nigger can be. I gits a
plenty to eat and wear and chaw, and ain’t got
no wife and children to bother me. marss Char
ley,” continued Juba, in a most innocent tone.
“Ain'tyou married yet?” .
“Not yet, Juba.”
44 Well, it’s time for you to be. You’ll be git
tin’ sorter old, after awhile, and the young gal’s
won’t have nutthin’ to do with you.”
44 Oh, there’s plenty of time yet, Juba. You
know I can marry any time I please.”
“No, sir—axin’ your pardon—l don't know
no sich thing; cause es you could git married so
easy you’d do it.”
“Well, suppose I admit what you say to be
true, Juba; it follows that your case is much
worse than mine. You have been courting all
yonr life and after being kicked till your shins
are sore; first by the girls, then by the middle
aged women, and, lastly, by all the toothless old
women in the neighborhood—you are an ugly,
miserable cross-grained old bachelor yet.”
44 Naver tried to git married in all my born
days, so help me God!” was Juba’s energetic
response.
“Tell that to those who don’t know you,”
said Uncle Charley. “ You can t fool me."
“ Dat gal ain’t livin’ dat I’d have.”
44 Gall What do you want with a gall Where
is one that would look at you? You want an old
woman—old as yourself.”
“Lord! marss Charley, what is you talkin'
about ? I marry an old ’oman! Es I court anv
cody. it'll be a nice young gal.”
' You sly old rascal!” here interposed my
father. “You didn’t know I had heard from
you. Jones and Scip have been telling me of
your desperate flirtations with old Dilsey. You
went with her to meeting regularly for two
months; "you who never would set foot inside of
a church till very lately. You needn't look so
wild about it. I've had a full account of your
carrying-on. And the worst of it all. Charley,
is that old Dilsey, after encouraging the youth
ful swain till he was induced to pop the ques
tion, told him, flatly, that he was too wicked and
old and ugly for her to think of marrying
him.”
It is impossible to describe the appearance
presented bv Juba, during this recital. Respect
for his master could hardly prevent him from
breaking in upon the narrative. He .writhed
about and turned up the whites of his eves,
spasmodically.
“Master!” he exclaimed, raising his hand
high in the air, as the tale was brought to a
close. 44 Master! es Scip says aU this, lie tells a
most onaccountalde, outdacious, ongodly lie ! Old
Dilsey’s old enough to be my mammy, and ain’t
got. ’nary whole tooth in her head —jest some old
yalier stumps and snags. But, never mind, I’ll
get Scip fur it.”
“Let’s ride on, Charley.” said my father.—
“This old chap willTOrst if we tease him much
more.”
“Good-bye, old bachelor,” said Uncle Charley,
as we moved on. 44 1 wish you better luck with
the women, next time.”
44 The best luck I can have is to keep dear of
’urn,” was the growing reply.
“No doubt of it, said I, “ especially if they
are all as cross as old aunt Dilsey.”
44 Ah! you're young, yet, but you'll find iim
out, one of these days.”
And Juba commenced on the grass as if de
termined to be revdflged on it for the quizziing
lie had received from us.
“ What do you think of this cotton, Charley?"
asked my father, as we continued our ride.
44 1 think you may well be proud of the field.
It promises finely now, but 1 need not remind
you of the uncertainty of the cotton crop.”
44 Os course not.”
44 But will your crop average as good as this?"
“ Hardly. Jones thinks it will, but he is a
little mistaken- He does not miss it very far,
though. I'll take you to see the rest of it to
morrow, or some other day, before you go. But
see that low ground corn there. Ride up here
on this little eminence and you can have a bet
ter view of it.”
“This is fine, Ham’,” exclaimed Uncle Char
ley, as he gazed on the broad expanse of rank
waving growtli, spread out in the valley below
us.”
“ Yes,” said my father, after enjoying his
friend’s admiration for a lew moments. 44 It is
good corn. I’ve seen a few acres, frequently,
that woidd yield larger proportional crops than
this, but I’ve seldom seen a field of the same
size which would measure out more per aeft.”
44 How much do you expect to gather here ?”
“Well, Jones says fifty bushels per acre, but
Juba says we won’t make more than forty
eight.”
44 And I'll bet old Juba's calculation will come
nearer the true one than Jones’.”
“ I agree with you,” was the reply, as we
turned our horses heads homeward.
CHAPTER 11.
My father was a well educated man and took
so much pains with me. tliat I was prepared to
enter college at an early age. He was casting
about a long while, in his own mind, as to where
lie should send me. At one time he thought of
entering me at West Point. I very candidly
told him tliat I was afraid the discipline was too
strict to suit me.
“That is the very idea," he would say, “It
will iuitVi« some tiling of you besides a mere nice
young man. I believe in elegance and refine
ment, as you are well aware. lam willing, nay
anxious, that you should be accomplished, as the
lessons I allow you to receive from Charley
Hampton bear me witness; hut, besides, I want
you to learn a little of the rough side of life,
before you are cast loose upon the world.”
‘•That is just what I• want myself, father,”
was my reply. “ I don’t want to go to West
Point; but I want to take a rough and tumble
trip out West, lieforc I enter at any college what
ever."
“Halloa, youngster! What wild notion is
this ? Take a trip out West before you go through
college ? Why, it will drive out all idea of study
from your brain.”
44 1 think not. It will give me a fine stock of
health and vigor, to support me through my
course.” ■
44 How do you expect to go—and when—and
with whom?"
44 1 have not yet settled the plan, in my own
mind. I thought it best to get your permission
before allowing myself to dwell on the details.”
44 Well, I must have time to think on the mat
ter. At present it does not strike me very favor
ably.”
So, for the time, the subject was dropped.
About this period, too, some circumstances of a
rather serious nature occurred, which postponed
my departure from home. Ours was a peaceable
neighborhood, generally, and those living in it
were wealthy, enlightened aud well behaved.
On one side of us, though, lived some people
of a rather worse class than our immediate neigh
bors. Our plantation was very irregular in its
form, and one corner of it—the farthest—joined
the land of a man named Warlock.
Old John Warlock and his two sons bought
the plantation on which they then lived, a few
years before the time of which I write. They
brought with them to the country a good many
negroes, together with a considerable sum of
money, and commenced the erection of a large,
rambling house. When this was about half fin
ished, they suddenly dismissed their carpenters,
hired n crack overseer, put the plantation in his
charge, and commenced a course of regular sport
ing. At first they*were admitted into the soci
ety of all who were fond of amusement. The
people around them were sociable and hospitable.
Whenever the Warlocks had visitors at their
house, or visited thediouses of others, they were
sure to propose a little poker, seven-up, or some
thing else to amuse the company; and somehow
they generally managed to win considerable
sums. For a good while they had rich pickings;
but at length it began to be suspected tliat they
were swindlers. Some ill-natured people assert
ed that they were slight-of-liand men, and could
make a Jack come up whenever they chose.
Whether this was so or not, they were, at least,
wretchedly dissipated, and this, coupled with
their invariably good luck at cards, made the
gentlemanly portion of the community avoid
them.
People now began to enquire into their ante
cedents, as they ought to have done at first. It
was whispered about that their real name was
not Warlock, and that they had fled from justice
which threatened them for forgery or murder,
i or both. How this rumor originated no one
| could say, and it was not substantiated; but its
existence, together witli what was already known
of their character, rendered them odious in the
eyes of most of their neighbors.
My father had but little to do with these men,
even in the beginning, as he seemed to have an
instinctive knowledge of their character. After
they were fully unmasked, he, in common with
the other gentlemen of the neighborhood, ceased
to exchange visits with them. It must bo con-
I fessed that my father was rather uncompromising
in his disposition—perhaps too much so—and lie ,
took less pains than almost any one else to con
ceal the litter contempt lie felt for the swindlers.
At any rate, they conceived a great dislike for
him. Thej’ were perfect bullies, and induced
many people to belive that they were recklessly
brave. This caused our friends to fear that my
father would one day suffer something at their
hands. Others knew if the desperados ever
sought a difficulty with him, lie would make
them rue it.
One night, soon after the conversation about
my western trip, the Warlocks started out.
drunk, patrolling. They had no commissions, but
went, as they said, ‘for the fun of it” Among
other plantations, they visited ours. They rode
up to the negro quarter, which was some dis
tance from the dwelling, shouting and swearing.
Going into the cabins, they found no negroes but
those belonging to the plantation. Disappointed,
they liegan to threaten and bully these. Finally
they lioeame so violent that the noise reached the
ears of my father, who was then talking with
Julia about the stock, of which the latter had the
charge. Listening a moment, he asked of Juba
the cause, of all that noise.
“It must be dem drunken vagabones, Jake
and Joe Warlock, and de ole man,” answered
Juba. 44 Dey always after some devilment."
44 Have they ever been here before?”
“No, sir. Dey been to plantations whar de
black folks' master live in town, but dey never
was here before. Dam fools for coming now,
too!” he added, sotlo voce, as he saw his master
seize a double-barreled gun and hasten out.
As my father started, he met Jones, the over
seer, who had also heard the noise, and was
coining by in haste for his employer. I had got
wind of the matter, and came out. We ran to
the cabin where the row was going on, and
reached it just as Jake Warlock had seized an
old grey-headed negro and was flourisliilig a
whip over him, with the most fearful impreca
tions. Without waiting to sec whether Jake
would strike or not, my father sprang forward,
and with a blow, from a stout hickory stick
which he carried, besides the gun, laid the ruf
fian bleeding and senseless on the floor. So
sudden was this act, that the first intimation the
drunken crowd had of our presence was the fall
of their comrade. Recovering a little from their
astonishment, they started to make a rush upon
us. Wo cocked our guns, and this caused a halt.
“You cowardly scoundrels,” said my father,
“what business have yon here?”
“ We are patrolling," was the reply.
44 1 am perfectly willing that patrolling should
be carried out, effectually, by proper men. in a
proper way. You see there are no negroes here
but my own, and you were about to flog one of
them. Besides, you are disturbing my family,
with your bawling. I don't go on your planta
tion to disturb its peace, and I will not permit
you to come on mine. Now, let me give you
fair warning. Never set your foot on my prem
ises again. I want to have nothing farther to
do witli you; and mark me—if you ever try over
the game of to-night, I’ll shoot you like dogs.”
Our determined front over-awed them, and. in
company with their stricken companion, who had
recovered his feet, they marched off rather more
quietly than they had come up.
[to be continued.]
- i—i i ■ i
rar The story below, entitled 44 Toil and Vic
tory," is from the charming pen of the lady who
is already so great a favorite with the Southern
public, under the familiar name of Jenny Wood
bine. She has been induced to abandon —as to
her productions written for our columns—the
nom de plume around which so many pleasing
associations cluster, and to make her debut in
her own proper name, with the first number of
the Southern Field and Fireside. Miss Annie
Blount will soon become, we do not doubt, ns
great a favorite os Jenny Woodbine, for it is
with much pleasure that we announce our hope
of publishing, frequently, articles in prose and
verse from this popular writer. She is one from
whom we expect much in the future, for the
honor of Southern Literature. Her talents are
yet but half developed. We are sure that as
these mature, she will, with care and labor—no
genius can dispense witli care and labor—achieve
for herself a high and durable literary reputation.
She is aware that in literature, as in all pursuits,
44 victory ” follows 44 toil.”
[Written fur the Southern Field and Fireside.]
TOIL ANIMTCTOKY.
CHAPTER L
Lift', in its many shapes, was there,
•The busy and the gav;
Faces that seemed too young and fair
To ever know decay.
Wealth with its waste. Its pomp, and pride
Led forth Its glittering train;
While poverty’s pale face beside
Asked aid, and asked in vain.
Lanoon.
1 once heard a young and beautiful lady say,
"I will read no story which does not tell of
lords and ladies, or, at least, of persons of noble
extract. I can not become interested in a
heroine of Jow birth, who has a host of vulgar
relations.”
For such as she this simple narrative is not
intended. Let it be read by the toiling and suf
fering poor; by those who desire earnestly to do
right, to pursue the narrow path of duty though
it lead through thorns and briars, and to work
out for themselves a destiny worthy to be won
in spite of the adverse attendants of poverty
and lowly birth. Aud if one such struggling
soul 1)0 inspired by the lessons it shall strive to
teach to new heroism, its humble author will be
content.
'Twas a bleak, cold bitter evening in Decem
ber—sleet, wind, and rain, rendered the streets
of a beautiful Southern city almost impassable.
Now and then a carriage, with its occupants
closely muffled up in warm cloaks and furs,
dashed by, and was speedily lost in the dark
nesss—but the pedestrians were few, and only
such as necessity compelled to brave the weather.
From the windows of princely mansions came
forth the sounds of merriment and joy; curtains
but half drawn displayed scenes of almost ori
ental magnificence, and occasionally the passer
by caught a glimpse of faces, fair as the embod
iment of an artist's dream—a poet’s vision.—
But it is not with scenes of high life that we
have to do just now. A city is the place of
sharp contrasts, ands while one-half of it revels
in wealth and luxury, the other half is doomed
to starvation and want. Have you not seen the
belle attired in flounces, ribbons and plumes,
wearing jewels which alone would save a thous
and families from the pangs of hunger, flaunting
proudly down the street, while close on her
heels followed a sister woman, ns fair, perhaps
as deserving, clad in the coarse garb of poverty
—her features sharpened by suffering—her grief
bowed form shrinking from the bitter blast from
which her thin patched garments afforded hut a
slight protection ?
Lowell has portrayed the contrast vividly in
his beautiful lines:
“ Hark! the rustle of a dress
Stiff with lavish costliness;
How the wearer's cheek would (lush.
But to have her garment brush
'< lainst the girl whose lingers thin
Wove the weary broidery In."
And has not your heart —if you are prone to
moralizing—as such a scene greeted you, queried,
“ Why is this ?” and you could frame no suitable
reply ? for with God alone, who mado rich and
poor, the answer rests.
In a hut—it could not properly be called a
house—which fronted a narrow and filthy alley,
a woman, past the middle age, might be seen
hovering over a handfull of ashes. The apart
ment bore the mark of naked poverty and idle
ness ; a pallet of rags was bundled up into one
comer; a broken table with unwashed dishes
stood near it; a few tottering chairs were scat
tered about, and the hearth was covered with
pots and ovens. An old window-shutter, with
one of the hinges broken off, kept flapping to
and fro jn the wind, and this, combined with the
street sounds without, formed a jargon of dis
cordant noises.
An hour dragged away, and the wonian sat
motionless over the feeble blaze, not oven stir
ring the ashes that they might send forth more
heat. Her apparel was wretched in the extreme,
and consisted of the remnants of tawdry finery,
soiled ribbons, and bits of dirty lace.
Her face had evidently once been beautiful,
but now its features were marred by want and
wickedness. Her eyes, which had once been
admired for their brilliancy, were dull and lus
treless—her complexion was sallow and ghostly,
and the roses had deserted her cheeks to bloom
on her nose. She was an outcast from society
—you need no words to tell it—one of those
unfortunates with which every city abounds,
who, after flaunting awhile in the gilded halls of
vice, had been given over, when her beauty was
ruined, to the companionship of blear-eyed
famine.
Wealth}', gay, and with but a slender stock-of
morals, Julia Stancey—Men the wife of a worthy
and respectable man, whom she had married fm
}>asition —listened to the voice of the tempter
and was lost. Deserted by her betrayer, and
freed from her marriage vow by the death of her
broken-hearted husband, who could not live and
face his disgrace, she fled with her little children
to another State, trusting that where she was
unknown she might build up for herself a repu
tation. But there is no half-way ground between
virtue and infamy. A woman once fallen has
small chance to rise again. When her crime is
discovered the world cries, “Kick her down,"
while her betrayer, and the sharer in her sin, is
taken by the hand—courted—if he be wealthy
—by manceuvoring mama's, and smiled upon by
fascinating daughters, who would faint if the
name of his victim was mentioned. Thus a line
of demarkation is drawn—why it is I leave it
for those more skilled than myself to answer.—
The world has made this difference, for certainly
God did not frame one code of morals for the
man, another for the woman. Christ said to the
erring woman. “Go, sin no more;” man casts
stones at the fallen one, and says: “ Thou art
fallen, and may not arise—lie in the dust—sink
deeper in the slough of pollution.”
The crimes of Julia Stancey followed her—
men praised her beauty when none was by, and
passed over to the other side of the street when
she appeared in public. Women dared not say,
“ I will, if there is any virtue left in you, lend
i you a helping hand;” and so, maddened and
reckless, she sank into the lowest depths of vice
with that telegraphic speed, seen only in a
woman who is lost for this world and the next.
Two of the children she was unworthy to
claim were taken from her by death—one alone
was left—a slender, delicate creature, owning
only “the heritage of woe.” Her shivering
form, badly protected from the driving sleet
without by the thin patched garments which
hung around her, now stood in the doorway.
“ Well, Theresa, have you come at last, and
did you get anything?”
“ Nobody would give me alms—some of them
called me a dirty little beggar and kicked me
! out of the way.”
“That’s a lie, and you know ib You were
i too proud to ask with your stuck up notions.”
“ Yes ma’am I did ask. I stood for hours at
the different crossings, but the passers by pushed
j me rudely and bade me go home.”
“Well, go to the pump now, and when you
, come back wash these dishes, and fry that meat
Mrs. Brown gave you yesterday.”
" Please ma’am let me build a fire and warm
first—l am nearly frozen.” The child's blue
lips and chattering teeth testified the truth of
her words.
“ No, get the water first —mind me, and don't
be putting in your tongue on every occasion.”
An inhuman mother is the ugliest picture
mortal artist can paint. Mother 1 why the very
name has in it a music sacred and holy, and
brings up to the mind instances of matchless
love, and unparaleled devotion. Heaven be
thanked that even on this sin-cursed earth there
are but few unnatural mothers to be found.
The water was brought, and the child, The
resa, gathered together a few chips and shavings
and proceeded to kindle a fire. Then, with her
little arms bared to the elbow, she moved away
the pots, washed up the dishes, and placed them
in rows on a wooden shelf, displaying taste even
in the arrangement of the humble crockery ware.
The mother fumbled in an old drawer, and
drew forth a shining piece of money.
“ Here, Theresa, the meat is frying, and I will
attend to it, get that bottle on the shelf, and run
to the comer store and bring me some brandy.”
“Mother, nd. You promised me you would
quit that vile habit—l cannot, cannot go.”
“ But you shall, girl. I tell you I cannot live
without excitement. I must have it, it is too
late to reform now—the finger of scorn is pointed
at me—l am an outcast from all that is good in
the world. I have said to evil, be thou my
right and I cannot turn back—give me drink, or
I die.”
The child was firm. “ I will not l»e a partner
in your sin.”
“ Then stay at home with your sanctimonious
aunt, sermon-preacher. I will go myself—mind,
and have supper ready when I get back.”
The wretched woman threw a faded shawl
over her head, and dashed through the open
doorway.
Theresa, a child in years—a woman in the
world’s misery—was left alone to pray for and
weep over the degradation of one whom nothing
could reclaim.
Reader, this is no fiction penned to arouse
| your sympathy in behalf of an imaginary hero
; ine. Theresa stiU lives; and from her own lips
have I gathered fragments of her eventful his
tory. She was no extraordinary genius swaying
the multitude with the gift of song; but through
all her life, purity shone pre-eminent. I have
not selected her because of her marvelous beau
ty, her wonderful endowments, or her matchless
intellect; but because she “touched pitch and
was not defiled” —raised in an atmosphere of
vice, and surrounded only by wickedness, she
remained untainted. Perchance some one like
her may read this life sketch and learn:
“ How sublime a thing it is
To suffer ami grow strong."